The Cold Heaven
by somewhere.somethingincredible
Summary: After the death of his best friend, John must learn how to exist in the real world again. Fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme. John/Sherlock.
1. One

Hello! So this is my humble coping mechanism for the agony of Reichenbach. It was one of the first prompts on the meme after the episode, and I just couldn't resist. It isn't finished yet, but I've got a bit of a backlog from the chapters on the meme, so I'll post those pretty regularly. For now, the M rating doesn't really apply, but it will and I just want to be safe. So without further ado, HERE. TAKE IT.

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><p>In the end, John goes back.<p>

It's not that he wants to. The flat is so full of the life that he and Sherlock shared – because really, what's the point in denying? John's life, by the end, was almost impossible to disentangle from Sherlock's – and he chokes on it. He's not even inside the flat proper when it happens. On the ninth stair, John's leg wobbled and he braced himself against the wall as his ribs rebelled and crushed his lungs.

They'd both collapsed on that step after the Pool, dizzy with adrenalin and shaking in the aftermath. The stairs are nowhere near wide enough to accommodate two grown men, but when they were half-sprawled on top of each other, personal bubbles resolutely abolished for the night, they fit quite nicely.

He worried that it was too soon.

But Baker Street is all he has left. The detritus of Sherlock's storm, the flotsam he'd left bobbing on the skin of the world in his wake, is scattered there. John finds he can't resist. The pull of their (_his,_ now) flat is inexorable, a hook around his aorta.

His hand shakes as he opens the door.

The flat is as they'd left it, dragged down the stairs to waiting cars. An unbidden smile quirks John's mouth, the first in a week. He was glad he'd punched that arsehole, even if it had led to a very brief arrest. It had been worth it for the little surprised smile from Sherlock that John had watched him cover up with a glib remark, as always. Always so shocked to find someone on his side, willing to stand up for him…

_No. Stop it._

It's far too quiet. There is the hum of the refrigerator, the rumble of traffic and the ticking of a clock from Sherlock's room. Ironic, that. Time really wasn't anything special now, to John. When the most important moments of one's life have already gone by in a few thumping heartbeats, the passage of time feels a bit superfluous.

He'd been back to the flat, once before this, but it was in a state of curious numbness that John now realized was shock. Pity they hadn't kept that blanket.

The first time he'd been back, it was like his body didn't know how to be in this place without _him_ to revolve around. It kept expecting a lanky body to stroll past him and throw itself down onto the sofa in a snit, and John felt himself moving his feet out of the way of nothing at all. He'd given the chair at the kitchen table a wide berth, though it was pushed in, and caught himself before he leaned over to peer over a missing, bony shoulder at the now abandoned experiments. When he left the flat, he left the door open, and he was halfway down the stairs before he realized that there was no-one to follow him through it.

John is aware now. The fog of shock has cleared and the emptiness of the house closes in, clear and cold. He looks at the sofa. There is a dressing gown strewn across it that he'd not noticed before. Blue. He'd liked that one best, and had often wondered if it was as soft as it looked. He'd never permitted himself to find out.

It _is_ soft, as it turns out. Well past things like awkwardness and boundaries and shouldn'ts, John lifts the fabric to his face. It stutters against the growth of beard he hasn't had the energy to shave. He makes the mistake of inhaling.

It smells like John imagined it would, like pilfered cigarettes and camphor and his soap.

_So this is what I was missing_, John thinks, and crumples to the carpet.


	2. Two

It's stupid, but John just wants the coat back.

He'd intended to avoid St. Bart's, for the rest of his life if at all possible, but he finds himself striding towards it one afternoon. His leg protests as he crosses the road (other end of the block from where that biker knocked him down, _don't think about it_) and starts up the sidewalk. He resolutely does not look up or down, just forward. If he thought about it, which he can't just now, he'd realize that he'd walked over a now-faded stain on the concrete.

Molly is in the morgue when John slips in. She jumps a bit when he clears his throat.

"Hello," he says as she whirls to face him. The colour drains from her delicate face and her brows pull together. _Guilt_, is the first flash of deductive thought that flickers across John's mind, but he dismisses it. She probably just feels bad for not speaking to him at the funeral. More likely, she feels pity. Poor John, alone again.

"John!" she says, too cheerful. "What are you – I mean, how are you doing?" She pauses, mortified. "No. Silly question. Um, what can I do for you?"

John breathes deeply.

"I was just thinking, maybe, I mean, they tend to keep things like that, evidence and whatnot, and perhaps if it wasn't a bother… I just don't see how it could shed any light on the… situation, and if it's just going to moulder in an evidence bag…"

John trails off, and Molly looks expectant.

"Sorry, what is it you're looking for?" she asks eventually.

"The… the coat, the one he was wearing… It'd be in evidence, or something. don't they – you, I suppose – keep the clothes or something?" John tries to smile in what he hopes is a genial manner. He knows it falls flat as Molly's face twists.

"Oh, John. I, um, thought you'd have known. They… um. They buried him in it."

What John doesn't know is this: Molly cried harder than anyone in attendance at Sherlock's funeral. She was near the door, and watched the back of John's head through her tears. She watched as he sat, ramrod straight in his pew next to Mrs. Hudson, and she knew he wasn't crying. That was almost worse. She felt she owed it to him, to have someone really grieve for _him_ instead of Sherlock. Molly knows she doesn't have to grieve for Sherlock. At least, not as much.

Another thing John doesn't know is that the coat is nowhere near that cemetery. It is, in fact, doing its level best to warm its owner as he shudders in the hold of a cargo ship crossing the North Sea. Sherlock runs a hand over his face and _aches_. The thrum of loneliness and wanting in his chest makes him long for home. Not the flat, precisely, though a chair by the fire seems pretty good about now. No, Sherlock aches for jumpers and the smell of tea and two-fingered typing and bickering and a lined, honest face. The agony of it makes him think of the last withdrawal he suffered. At least then, he knew it would end, eventually.

He suspects this withdrawal won't.


	3. Three

Please review! I love feedback; good is preferable, less good I can work with!

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><p>John sleepwalks through half a year.<p>

After a few weeks he gets a job, at a different surgery on the other end of the Bakerloo line. The clinic in Lambeth is small and drab, but John needs to get out of the house. It's too cloying, all the things he hadn't said buzzing around him like so many flies. The flat stinks of things held back and John needs out.

The Tube is good. John can zone out, rock with the motion of the train and not be expected to engage with anything. It's perhaps his favourite time of day, the commute. He stares at ads for Vodafone and the newest sensation on the shelves at Waterstone's and doesn't have to feel a thing about it.

Dealing with patients is easy. John slips into the costume of the reserved concerned medical professional and helps people. It's not enough, and probably never will be. But it'll do for now. At least when he stitches these people, these strangers up, he isn't distracted by sheaves of pale skin revealed by rucked up clothing, or the press of an insistent pulse under his hand. He doesn't have to literally force these patients to _dammit, could you stay still for one second while I get this stitched?_ and he therefore doesn't feel the thump of a heartbeat beneath a graceful breastbone as he holds them in place. It wouldn't have the same impact, anyway. There are no bright, glacial eyes watching him keenly, so there's really no room to compare.

After six months of this, of avoiding Harry and Lestrade and anyone else whose gaze might soften at the sight of him, John wakes up one Tuesday appalled at his life. It's not a special day, not any anniversary or milestone; the six month anniversary passed two days prior and John had purposefully let it pass without incident. He hadn't gone to the grave, though perhaps he should have. It had been almost too much that first time, when he'd gone with Mrs. Hudson (the only person he permitted to turn a gentle expression on him). Besides, John hadn't cried in months, and had no intention of breaking a streak he'd been rather hard-pressed to maintain.

But this Tuesday, ordinary day sandwiched between ordinary days, John awakes with every muscle in his body taut. It isn't waking from a nightmare that makes him so, though those are frequent and John has yet to get used to them. It was one thing to wake with the taste of blood in his mouth, scrabbling at his eyes to rid them of phantom sand and clutching at his treacherous leg. No, since _that_ day they've been radically different, and John knows he will never entirely purge them from his mind. It is a far different beast he grapples with now. There are falling bodies, always, and he always feels that impact on the sidewalk as though it were an impact on his own body. His mind fixates particularly closely on the slide of dark curls through a red pool as the body is turned over, supine. Nightly, he watches his best friend seep life onto the concrete until the whole world drowns in it and John never knows what to do.

He'd suffered through one of those the night before this Tuesday. It had woken him at three AM, shaking and keening out a broken version of his friend's name. But he'd slept again, dreamless this time, and when he woke up it was with a profound distaste for this inaction. He is still sad, devastated, undone, but his nature is rebelling and a small, suspiciously baritone voice in the back of his mind chides him for his stagnation. _You are more than this_, it says. _You're letting him down._

So John gets out of bed and calls in sick. He dresses with more care than he has in months, makes tea and leaves the flat. When winter had set in, late this year, John had shamefacedly dug out his cane and had been relying on it ever since. He bypasses it this morning without a thought and goes down the stairs and out onto the slushy sidewalk on steady, sturdy legs.

John takes the Tube to St. James Park station and gazes back when people catch his eye. He exits onto Broadway and strides into the building opposite. Familiar faces gape at him, and he doesn't blame them for that. He holds them accountable for a lot, but not for their shock at seeing him.

Lestrade's office hasn't moved. John is mildly surprised that he makes it that far without at least being asked what the hell he's doing there, after six months of silence. People just don't know what to say.

John knocks and is answered with a familiar, weary "yeah, come".

He opens the door. He has clearly interrupted a meeting, but evidently not a vastly important one. Donovan turns in her seat and goes stock still, eyes frozen on his face. John barely glances at her and focuses on the Detective Inspector.

Greg Lestrade looks like shit. His hair is a touch too long and it doesn't suit him, and the smudges beneath his eyes match the shadow along his jawline. He's lost weight. John looks at him and realized he'd missed the man. They'd always got on, and John begins to wish he hadn't severed all contact.

Lestrade is the only one who isn't surprised. He looks at John a bit expectantly, but with patience behind his eyes. God, if patience were currency that man would be rich.

Now that he's here, though, John isn't actually sure what he came to say or do.

"Let me prove you wrong," was what came out. Lestrade furrowed his brow and Donovan looked as though she was halfway between a scoff and a sob. _Poor sod_, he sees in her eyes, _taken in by the freak, he believed it all._ "Let me show you that what he did was real. I watched him do it for a year and a half and while I'm not him, I'm not blind, and he taught me how to look." John's breath catches in his throat, but then, he's intimately used to that feeling now. "One case is all I'm asking for." _Let me start to fix what's been broken._

Donovan has abandoned all pretences and looks furiously astonished. She stands and opens her mouth to speak. One look from Lestrade and her teeth click shut into a grimace.

Lestrade gazes at John for a long moment. He doesn't smile, but he nods.

Something small clicks back into place in John's chest, and he breathes easier.

_Two days before_

Not much of the snow has been disturbed. Mourning is best when it's convenient, picturesque. Sherlock stamps his feet in the drift and breathes into his hands, wishing he'd remembered his gloves.

This was not a smart idea. Returning to Britain was a death wish at best, but when Sherlock had found a way to do so that coincided with a potentially significant date he'd bundled himself into an air freight container at the Ulaanbaatar airport. China hadn't been pleasant, mostly, but Shan hadn't been the only strut supporting The Black Lotus and with Mycroft's help and finances, Sherlock put a significant dent in their doings. when they discovered who he was and what he was up to, though, they'd chased Sherlock from the country and he'd been meandering in Mongolia for over a month.

"I really shouldn't even be proposing this, given I know you probably won't listen when I tell you not to do it." His brother's voice over the phone was threadbare.

"Don't be obtuse, Mycroft. It's unbecoming. Of course I won't listen."

He couldn't risk London. It was too well-observed, and John might spot him. Sherlock chose a place where he could watch John to his heart's content without fear. The cemetery wasn't under surveillance, Mycroft made sure of it. All Sherlock had to do was wait, and he'd be rewarded with at least a glimpse. Maybe that would ease the knot in his chest that seemed to grow larger and gnarl further with every day he spends away.

Sherlock checks his watch. It's nearly three PM. Are there delays on the Tube? An emergency? Surely there must be, otherwise John would be here. John is a creature of habit, of patterns if nothing else and the six month anniversary would warrant a visit in his mind.

Sherlock waits, hunched under the tree with his hands in his pockets, smoking furiously and billowing the grey of cigarette after cigarette into the frigid air like a dragon.

Mrs. Hudson visits around three-thirty and leaves a sprig of holly sitting in an Erlenmeyer flask that she must have brought from the flat. Something clenches in Sherlock's throat at the sight of her, a small purple speck against the snow, bent over with sobs that he can only just hear from his hiding place.

_Where is John?_

She leaves after a half hour, and Sherlock waits well into the dark hours for a man who doesn't come.


	4. Four

Molly Hooper feels like she is losing her mind, just a little.

The weight of her secret is bowing her down, and she finds it hard to look people in the eye when she speaks to them. It feels like everything she says is a lie, even if it isn't.

She has taken it upon herself to keep an eye on John. Not for Sherlock, though he often texts her to reap the benefits of her vigilance. It's for her own sanity. She needs to know that John is safe and surviving, needs to be there for him even if he doesn't know it. She organizes her work schedule around his as best she can, and resolutely pushes labels like _stalking_ out of her mind. It kills her to watch John hobble through the days, but at least she has concrete answers to Sherlock's questions.

_What did he do today?_

_ SH_

_He went to work. Stopped at _

_Tesco on the way home._

_The chip and pin machine _

_worked fine._

_3Molly_

The texts showed up on a more or less regular basis, and usually from a different number each time. Molly dutifully recounts John's activities, even when it's the exact same as the last time he asked. Molly can also tell when Sherlock is feeling especially lonely. He's painfully easy to read, when it comes to John.

_Has he smiled today?_

_ S_

The answer is always no, and Molly needs one avenue in her life to be honest in.

_He hasn't smiled in months._

_ 3Molly_

The sideways hearts are more reflex now than anything. She does love Sherlock, but she hates him too, most of the time.

John doesn't do anything outside of work. He doesn't go to the pub, he never eats out, even regular trips to Tesco are done with minimal human contact. He never notices her as he goes back and forth with his menial business, but then, Molly rather suspects that John doesn't notice much anymore. She feels a bit foolish, tailing the poor man (what for? Even if he were in danger, the best Molly could do was dial the mysterious number marked M that Sherlock had entered into her contacts before he left). But it is her penance, she thinks, to watch the devastation that Sherlock's – and by proxy, her own – deception has unleashed on John Watson.

Then one icy Tuesday in mid-January John is not at his Tube station on time to get to work. Molly waits for twenty minutes and ends up late for work, but John doesn't show. It is odd, but not unprecedented. John's immune system has taken a turn for the worse, with the weather and his lack of regard for himself. He's been plagued with two colds and one flu in six months, and had made his stalwart way to work even when ill. He'd begged off three days in total, all at the height of the contagious periods of illness. Molly imagines this is less to do with his own comfort and more to do with the safety of his patients. In some things, John hasn't changed at all.

Molly is understandably shocked when she returns from her lunch break that day to find John in her morgue.

Moments before, she'd been re-reading the last text she'd received from Sherlock, two days before ( _He didn't show. S_) and wondering if maybe something more than the obvious was wrong with John. Therefore, the sight of him leaning over a body that hadn't been there when she left threw her for a loop. She reflexively shoved her mobile into the pocket of her lab coat.

"Hey, Molly," said Lestrade. Molly hadn't even noticed him standing next to John. John's eyes flick up to meet hers.

It is strange to have his gaze on her again after so long avoiding it. The sight of those deep blue eyes makes her want to break down sobbing and tell him everything. Anything to make the gauntness in his cheeks and the hollowness of his expression go away.

Instead, she says: "Um, hi."

John's attention goes back to the body, and Molly breathes again.


	5. Five

Greg waits with bated breath.

At first, John Watson had been an anomaly – Sherlock never had company, nor did he work with anyone, so who was this limping man he'd brought with him to the crime scene in Brixton? Greg had quickly realized that while John was certainly anomalous, he was more than a bit miraculous, too.

It had been amazing to watch, the way the two men had affected each other. Greg had known Sherlock for almost five years and had firmly made up an opinion of his character. Standoffish, brusque, acerbic and arrogant, the man struck Greg as someone who would never change his ways unless his work depended on it. It had been easy for Greg to press this advantage; threats to bar Sherlock from crime scenes had made a far better incentive to get clean than threats of incarceration. But somehow, something in John had called to something in Sherlock. Two lonely men with something to prove had met at the right time and the result had truly been incandescent. Greg wasn't the only one to notice the thread of energy, of awareness, that formed between the two men. It wasn't Greg's well-developed gaydar that really tipped him. He'd always classified Sherlock as a non-entity when it came to that, and before John he'd never been given cause to change that view. And John's demeanour was so inherently bloke-ish that Greg hadn't really made the connection between the way John looked at Sherlock from day one and potential non-platonic feelings.

He was shocked, and a bit heartbroken, that the men hadn't seen it in time.

But now, six months after Sherlock's – call a spade a spade, Greg – suicide, John has woken up again. A concerned party had kept Greg apprised of John's descent into rote, mundane existence, and it killed Greg to know how much of this strong, capable man's vigour and vitality had been sapped out. He'd been hoping for months that John's innate need for danger, for the thrill he'd gotten with Sherlock, would manifest as a return to the Met instead of some sort of crazy thrill-seeking spree that would end with him sprawled, broken somewhere. So when John had come into his office that morning and asked to be let in on a case, Greg had no intention of refusing.

John leaned down, very close to the victim's neck, inhaled once, and straightened up, nodding.

"Mid-forties. Cause of death is not immediately apparent. Those stab wounds," he indicates the garish slices in the flesh of the victim's hairy belly, "are a red herring, they would have bled a lot but not enough to cause death within the timeline that you gave me on the way over. There's a tiny puncture wound on the side of his neck, but there aren't any of the conventional signs of poisons that might have been administered that way." John lifts the victim's medical records, which he'd thus far left untouched. "Ah, yes, I'd suspected as much. He is fatally allergic to peanuts, but an actual nut or traces thereof might have been noticed and raised suspicion. The victim's throat swelled closed without pressure from the outside and the autopsy found no allergens in his stomach, so it appears that the puncture on the neck is the result of someone introducing the allergen with a syringe. From the girth of the puncture wound, I can guess the gauge. Thick ones like that are only used for longer needles. The needle was long enough to deposit the material directly into the oesophagus. The stab wounds were administered first, to subdue the victim, then the needle was used when the victim was injured, to deliver the fatal injection. It wouldn't show up on a tox screen, nor would it be noticed in the autopsy. I'm going to hazard a guess that the murderer filled a syringe with peanut oil. It's readily accessible and would have absolutely done the trick. The patch around the puncture has a slight sheen to it, and it smells faintly of peanuts. There must have been a bit of seepage from the wound that the murderer wiped off. Any blood would have come off, but the oil that escaped clung to the skin, just enough to leave the shine of the substance and the odour."

Greg can do nothing but blink. John isn't finished.

"The murderer would have needed to be relatively close to him to know about the allergy. The victim didn't wear an identification bracelet, or at least there wasn't one with the clothes you showed me, so he either wasn't terribly forthcoming about it, he wasn't concerned about it or he thought everyone was aware. There is clear evidence of carpal tunnel in the right hand, though you said he worked as a gardener. That profession is not conducive to this sort of repetitive stress injury. What is conducive to it, however, is extensive time spent at a keyboard. If you check his browser history, I think you'll find the victim spent most of his time online. This infers that his social life may have been lacking, and suggests an introverted personality. An introvert wouldn't go around telling people about his peanut allergy."

John moves to the victim's shoulder.

"Look here, at these long thin scratches." He points to a crosshatch of light, barely visible scars and scratches on the body's right shoulder and upper arm. "He was a cat owner."

"But his file says he was allergic to cats," Greg interjects meekly. "Quite violently allergic, actually."

"Yes, I saw. But these scratches have no swelling or rash around them, and the victim shows no sign of the congested sinus or hives that go along with his degree of allergy. That, coupled with the abundance of brown, tan and black hairs on his trouser legs and the front of his jumper, indicates that he kept a Bengale cat, one of those hypoallergenic ones, I'll wager. The scratches are from when he picks it up and it clings to his shoulder through his clothes. They're not deep or random enough to be aggressive scratches, and there's evidence of where it's happened many times."

"There was no cat. At the flat, I mean."

"Was there cat paraphernalia? A bed, a food dish, a litter box?" John's face has a familiar look on it, one that Greg never thought to associate with anything but keen cheekbones and all-knowing eyes. Greg vaguely remembers a dish on the floor by the refrigerator. He'd dismissed it at the time, but nods now.

"Those cats are worth thousands of pounds. Did any of the suspects you interviewed have a cat, or show signs of it?"

A realization floors Greg.

"His ex-girlfriend had, like, five cats. I only remember because it was murder trying to get all the hair off my trousers after I left." _What better to hide a tree than a forest?_

"Did one of them look like a tiny leopard, by any chance?"

He nods slowly, unable to look away from John. This sad, small man had seen dozens of things his forensic team had missed, and essentially just solved the case after a short debrief, a look at the clothes through an evidence bag and ten minutes with the corpse.

Now, Lestrade has always counted himself a loyal man. When Sherlock died and all his exploits were being debunked, Lestrade had protested. No matter what most of his team wanted to believe, Greg had seen Sherlock do extraordinary things, and no-one could entirely convince him that it had been fabrication. He wasn't willing to dismiss them that easily. That was another reason he'd let John in on the case: the past six months had been the worst in half a decade at work, for the simple fact that there was no longer a consulting detective to puzzle out the cases that stumped them. So really, he hadn't needed any convincing that Sherlock's methods worked, but to see them in action through _John_ was a revelation.

"That's brilliant." It just slips out.

John's answering grin puts every light in Britain to shame. "I know."


	6. Six

They find a stack of unpaid bills at the ex-girlfriend's flat, and a set of emails in her sent box organizing the sale of Nefertiti the ludicrously expensive cat. It turns out that the murderer had been up to her ears in both credit card debt and rent payments, and the £7000 that the buyer was offering would have taken most of the heat off her neck. It didn't help that she'd borrowed money from her decidedly shady cousin and now he and his "friends" wanted it back. According to Lestrade, when they went to bring her in, she cried and pleaded and bribed with money she didn't have, then tried to appeal to their sense of pity. Lestrade had given her a much deserved response about how premeditated murder in order to steal a _cat_ was not cause for pity.

John is exhilarated by his success. His deductions are different: they are based on the years of medical training he's received as opposed to a vast general knowledge base. But John knows how to look, now, how to look for patterns and aberrations and anomalies. He doesn't think he would be of much use at a crime scene unless the body was still there. He is wrong about this: he starts being asked to crime scenes two months in and fits right in. But he knows now, with a fierce sense of pride, that he's made the doubters think twice.

Now, Lestrade calls him in. It's shocking, the dichotomy of excitement and jarring nostalgia that surges through him whenever it happens. The pain of missing Sherlock is worse now than before, actually, because John's _letting_ himself miss Sherlock. For months, he has blocked it all out, deadened the nerves and put on his blinders. He had put everything of Sherlock's that wouldn't moulder or spontaneously combust into the downstairs bedroom and closed it up. The door had remained closed for months.

John keeps it closed, still. Even as he works his way through six more months, these ones filled with more life and human interaction, John just _can't_. While he is no longer in denial about everything, John still finds himself falling into old patterns: picking up the phone to text Sherlock (he even goes so far as to type _We're out of _ – into the text box one day before realizing), he buys too many groceries and finds himself making tea for two more often than not. So, John makes meals for Mrs. Hudson more frequently and drinks a lot of tea.

And the _wanting_ is back, now. For months all John could think of was Sherlock falling and bleeding and broken and gone. Now, every so often, the way John used to think of Sherlock resurfaces. He goes dry-mouthed at the thought of a long, pale throat, of the lush curve of cupid's bow lips, even sometimes allows himself to imagine placing gentle hands on slim hips and…

These imaginings are worse, almost, because they remind John of what he never had, will never have, now.

But even when John wearily realizes one day that yes, he was stupidly _in_ love with Sherlock, it doesn't change the everpresent weight in his chest that much. John had acknowledged that he loved Sherlock a long time ago, and the notion of being _in_ love with him is just a new definition for the connection he felt. That, or John's grief had always known how he felt about Sherlock.

The year anniversary comes far too quickly. John is splitting his time between locum work at the clinic and working for Scotland Yard, now in official capacity as consultant with a paycheque to go with it. He never really had to worry about losing the flat, Mrs. Hudson being who she was, but he hated to feel like he was taking advantage of her. He pays the full rent for the flat still, the rent he and Sherlock used to split. With his two jobs, now, it's not really a problem. Lestrade and his higher ups are more than generous.

It was gratifying to watch the turnaround in the Met employees. Lestrade had believed in Sherlock and his methods from the start. But to watch Donovan and Anderson slowly turn from resentment and anger to abashed wonderment while watching John, an ordinary, average man, apply Sherlock's methods was truly recompense enough. Dimmock had been a bit ambivalent at first, but when a chance meeting brought him into contact with Molly, that changed quickly. Dear Molly, with her unwavering support of a man who, in life, had been nothing but unkind and rude to her. She and Dimmock formed an instant, if shy connection, and within a month they were dating. Needless to say, Dimmock changed his tune to match hers very quickly.

When John idly mentions one day at a crime scene that he'll be heading up to visit Sherlock in a couple days, it turns more than a few heads.

"John, mate, are you… feeling alright?" Lestrade hazards tentatively after a few tense, silent moments.

"Well, I mean, it's hard to fathom, really. A year without him, I mean. And I suppose I'm alright at the moment, yeah. I just haven't been back to his grave since…"

A collective breath is exhaled.

"Christ, John! Thought you'd gone off you nut, there, for a moment," Lestrade says with a nervous smile.

"Greg, if he were alive, I'd know about it by now," John says sadly. "I mean, I held out stupid hope for a bit, but when there was nothing… I knew him well enough to say that he wouldn't have let me believe him dead for this long. Even he isn't that cruel."

John doesn't notice Molly, who is on the scene to pick up the corpse, go stock-still and squeeze her eyes shut in anguish.

John also doesn't see a CCTV camera, complete with microphone, pointed directly at him from a discrete corner. At the other end of the connection, Mycroft Holmes has to look away. The trust, still that damned unshakable faith, astounds and humbles him. It also makes him want to flay his brother's hide from his flesh. But that would be hypocritical, because really, Mycroft is helping to keep Sherlock away. Encouraging it, even. The consequences – Mycroft glances back at the resigned, sad-eyed face on the screen – do not outweigh the benefits of Sherlock unravelling Moriarty's web unhindered.

Mycroft sighs, picks up his mobile and sends two texts.

_Hurry up. _

_ You are missed._

_ Constantly._

_ MH_

And the second, sent with a small, fond smile.

_Shall I pick you up_

_ at the Yard at 7?_

_ MH_

He receives a reply to the second one almost immediately, but then again, he had watched the recipient type it.

_Sounds great, love._

_ By the way, your brother_

_is a massive twat._

_GL_

Mycroft doesn't know what he would do without Greg to confide in.

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><p>Reviews are love.<p> 


	7. Seven

John goes to the grave, on the anniversary. He doesn't go alone.

They fill the cab. Molly and Dimmock crush into the front with the cabbie, and Lestrade sits in the back with Mrs. Hudson and John. John isn't positive how he feels about not being alone for this. On one hand, it is good to have his friends with him (it is good to have friends again, period.). But on the other hand, John doesn't know what seeing the grave again will do to his self-control.

John gets the best of both worlds. He has people there, to stand with him at first, to place their flowers and remember. Then, in an unspoken agreement, they all leave John in peace to "pay his respects".

The headstone has a dusting of pine needles spread across the top. Gently, so gently, John brushes them away. His fingertips linger on the cool marble.

"Last time I was here, I told you to stop being dead," he says in a quiet, slightly incredulous voice. "God, I wish you'd listened." He huffs a slight laugh. "You never were good at listening."

He shuffles a bit closer, keeping contact with the stone and staring at the writing.

"There was a lot I didn't get to say. I suppose you knew that. Ella – my therapist, you'd probably deleted that – asked me to say it when I went to see her almost a year ago. I couldn't then. Frankly, I…" John's breath hitches, catches on the mess of aches in his chest. "I can barely say it now, but no-one's listening, so maybe it's okay." He pauses, takes a shaky breath. "First off, I am _so angry_ with you. I said that before, with Mrs. Hudson. I told her I wasn't that angry, but I am, God, Sherlock…"

His cheeks are wet.

"I'd probably punch you in the face, if you were to appear right now, to be honest, you wanker. _You left me_."

"But really, after I get past the anger, and the hurt that you didn't trust me enough to talk to me, to let me help you, I just miss you. Hear that? I miss you so much I can't breathe some days."

"Also, you probably knew this already, but I love you. Did from the start, probably. I wish I'd told you. I get the feeling it wasn't something you heard enough, as much as you deserved."

John quirks the sides of his mouth up, but it isn't a smile. He's too drained for that, at this point in _this_ day.

"People are starting to believe again. In you, I mean. I didn't do as you asked, and I'm sorry. It was a lie I couldn't tell. I was too proud of you, of your huge mad brain. Am too proud. I keep seeing grafitti, and it's becoming more widespread." John pulls a flyer out of his pocket. It is black, with stencil-painted red letters on it. "'I believe in Sherlock', they say, now. I never stopped." He bends to tuck the corner of the flyer under one of the fresh bouquets.

John swipes one last errant needle from the headstone and starts to move away.

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me," he says to his feet. It seems to great a challenge to look upon the tangible marble reminder again. "I just hope you knew."

John straightens. His shoulders drop and push back, his chin lifts and he sets his jaw. The tears have dried to tacky trails on his face but he doesn't touch them. John strides away across the graveyard, towards the huddle of people up on the drive.

This time, there is no-one watching from the shadows of the trees.

_Transcript from Call #3929538 – Blocked Number 23:34 18/06/13_

S: _Please. I just want to go home, Myc._

M: _I know. You can't._

S: _I haven't heard his voice in a year. A year, Mycroft. Do you have any idea how that feels?_

M: _You survived over 30 years without hearing his voice, Lock. Survive a few more._

S: _I can't do this. I'm cold, my stitches ripped again and… I miss him. Just ten minutes, that's all I'm asking._

M: _Bargaining will get you nowhere, and you know you wouldn't be satisfied with that. Besides, would it be worth it, to watch him get shot in front of your eyes?_

_S does not reply._

M: _I thought not. It may help you to know, he went to the grave yesterday._

S: _How… how did he look?_

M: Happier. And sadder.

S: _That is spectacularly unhelpful, Mycroft._

M: _He's still just as devastated, Sherlock, what the hell do you want me to say?_

S: _Is this line secure?_

M: _That was an asinine question._

S: _The project I'm working on now, in Murmansk… I could use a hand with it._

M: _You want me to come to Russia? I couldn't, Sherlock. I am far too busy._

S: _Please, Myc._

M: _… I'll see what I can do._

S: _Thank you._

_End of call._

Sebastian Moran leans back in his chair and smiles, cutting off the recording.

"Gotcha, boys."


	8. Eight

Welp, this took longer than expected. I'm guessing no-one's actually still reading this but I hate leaving things in pieces. So I'm trying to finally finish this. In the meantime, here is a large crop of updates

* * *

><p>After six months, Seb has to admit that no, he didn't have them after all. He'd come the closest in Tibet, after a merry chase through Russia that had him breathing down the younger Holmes' neck more than once. He'd suspected that little weasel hadn't actually died at the same time as Jim, but the confirmation had come with the phone call to his brother from Murmansk. Seb had thought the short doctor flatmate, the one left behind, was just a very good actor for a few months after that, but eventually realized that John Watson didn't know. This makes Seb's blood shiver excitedly in his veins. It'll make a lovely last resort to bleed the ex-army doctor dry, just to smoke Sherlock out.<p>

It irks Seb that Sherlock is forever out of his reach. The call from northern Russia had been a ruse, and when Seb arrived to record low temperatures and a trap he cursed his own eagerness. It makes his fingers itch for the trigger of his AWM L115A3 rifle and he fantasizes about what Sherlock's face would look like framed in crosshairs.

It's all that keeps him going, really. He does, after all, have a rapidly crumbling criminal empire to maintain despite his (well-locked up) grief, and imagining creative ways to kill Sherlock and John helps him through the worst nights.

That's always been the way Seb has dealt with sorrow, he realizes when he thinks about it. Jamming the emotions down under roiling layers of rage and bloodlust. It was why he'd joined the army after his mother's death, and why he'd taken up with Jim after being discharged from the military. Seb has found, over the years, that violence suits him. Hell, it doesn't just suit him: Seb knows he wears violence like a fucking Westwood three-piece.

Working with Jim had been perfect. He got paid to do what he delighted in. He didn't even think twice about it, doing the work he did. And for once, for _once_ in his life, he was in the company of someone who didn't see his affinity for violence as a detriment to his character. In fact, Seb realized quickly (somewhere between the burning glances, the frantic biting kisses and the violent, bruising fucking on concrete while Seb's rifle cooled beside them) that Jim _really_ didn't mind Seb's violent nature.

Finding an oozing body lying on the roof at Bart's, still smiling faintly, was the first thing in years to make Seb think twice about the value of violence.

But now the bloodlust is back with vengeance, and Seb just wants to _hurt_. He chased Sherlock across Russia and into China, only to find that his own support network there had all but collapsed. Cursing the Holmes name, he'd driven Sherlock out into Burma. With Mycroft's help, Sherlock always found himself one step ahead of Seb. Somehow, the man had also acquired a latticework of contacts in the most unusual places. Sebastian often arrived in cities to find that Sherlock had been spirited away on some obscure billionaire's dime.

It's endlessly frustrating for Seb. He has other things he should be doing, but he can't let go of the man, the reason Jim is dead. Seb doesn't think he loved Jim, but then, their relationship _had_ been dangerously co-dependant. _Like Sherlock and his army doctor_, thinks Seb with a nasty, vindictive tone to the thought. _Oh, it will be nice to watch them both burn. Just like Jim wanted_.

So Seb chases Sherlock, across continents and in circles, slow concentric circles. Seb intends for him to get so dizzy that he won't even see the final blow coming. He wants Sherlock's world to be spinning and frantic when Seb takes his kill shot. All Sherlock will be able to do is watch as everything he has practically died to protect goes up in flames.

It takes Seb another year and a half, but he's not bothered, really. In his mind, vengeance only gets better with age.

Three years on after Jim's death, Seb finds himself killing time at a casino in Leicester Square. When Ronald Adair catches him cheating at cards and Seb is forced to take him out (a shot from 500 meters into the open window of his fourth floor flat later that night, child's play to Seb) it never occurred to him that it would be this footnote murder that brings Sherlock back to London at last.

It's not quite as good as drawing him back on a trail of John Watson's blood, but it'll do.


	9. Nine

John is a bit shocked when he looks up from his life one day to find the third anniversary looming.

It's not that he has forgotten. How can he? Every day and every night, it seems something is always fixing to remind him what he has lost. Even when there is nothing that can conceivably remind him of Sherlock, the knowledge is just _there_. Sometimes it aches, sometimes stings, sometimes just pulls at his nerves like a barely healed scar, but it never quite goes away.

John goes about his life anyway. In the last two years, he's done everything possible to reconnect with human life, with _real_ life. Some of his attempts have been successful, some not so much.

For instance, John now has more friends than ever. Not only has he made a solid group of mates among the blokes at the Yard (not Anderson, never Anderson), he has joined a rugby club and gets on really well with most of his teammates. It feels good to have regular exercise again as well. When he worked with Sherlock, there was _always_ running involved, and in the year after his death the muscles John had built up wasted away. However, once John starts going to rugby twice a week and jogging in Regent's Park on his days off, his physique returns quite quickly. It invigorates him so much, in fact, that for a good eight months he becomes almost fanatical about it. He dials it down, though, after a minor injury sustained in a scrum, but it's something that he can do that's mindless. It's also a mindless activity that people don't question, and he rather likes that.

Aside from his social life and physical health, though, John's life has some drawbacks. The nightmares have never lessened, and every time John thinks he has gotten used to one of the recurring ones, it morphs just enough to be freshly horrifying.

John also hasn't had sex in a long time. It isn't that he can't, physically; John's always had a healthy libido and still wakes up many mornings with a persistent erection. It's difficult, though, to take care of it himself, because his mind inevitably supplies him with images of pale kiss-bitten lips open around a baritone moan, long slender limbs wrapped around his own and sweat being blinked out of blue eyes that are fogged by lust. It's hard not to feel conflicted about that, so John almost invariably just resigns himself to an icy shower. When he does manage to close those images out of his head for the requisite fifteen or so minutes (which is very, very rare), the orgasms are unsatisfying, lacklustre. He never comes hard enough to make it feel worthwhile. Also, pale blue eyes always accompany his mind's eye over the edge, no matter what he does, and he can never be sure when he cries out whether it's in ecstasy or anguish.

John has always felt his most vulnerable in the grip of orgasm, so he barely bothers anymore.

He tried. For six months, he almost succeeded. One night around the two year mark, while out for a beer with Stamford, John got to talking with the woman next to them at the bar. She was lovely, tall with tumbling dark blonde hair and warm brown eyes. Her name was Mary, and she was a substitute teacher. Easy to talk to and funny, she was the first person in a long time that John wanted to take out on a date. So despite the miserable twist somewhere deep between his lungs, he asked if she wanted to have dinner with him. It was silly, to feel guilt along with the happiness when she readily said yes.

They dated for over five months and never had sex. They tried, once, after the third date, but John found he _just couldn't_. It wasn't about Mary. She was beautiful, and pre-Sherlock, she would have been exactly his type: curvaceous and unashamed of her gorgeous, lush body. But John is ruined, he realizes. At least for some time, maybe forever.

Wonderful, amazing Mary doesn't bat an eye.

"Well, I've never had too much of a sex drive anyway," she murmured as she curled around John, afterward. He faced away from her and cursed his miserable mind for its inability to let go. He _really liked_ Mary. "If it's just this, if this is as far as we get, I'm okay with that. You?"

John turned to face her, incredulous. Slowly, he nodded.

They spent five months this way. It got to the point, before a job transfer had taken Mary away from London, that John could see himself married to her in a year or two. It wouldn't be conventional, it wouldn't be perfect, but John loved her as best he could. However, when a permanent posting in at a private school in New York was offered to Mary on a recommendation from a previous employer, Mary found she couldn't say no. John had gone with her to Heathrow at six in the morning and watched her until she was out of sight behind security. They parted as friends. He didn't quite know how to feel, so he just went home to Baker Street, made enough tea for one, and watched telly until it was time for work.

John didn't bother with dating after that.

When the murder of Ronald Adair comes up, it doesn't seem monumental. Another death, another case, another testament to his dead friend's genius. John wonders, as he sometimes does, whether it would ever get to be too much, if the deluge of memories that always came with cases would ever simply overwhelm him. It hadn't happened yet, miraculously, and John idly wonders what would happen if it did.

He doesn't have long to think on the subject.


	10. Ten

It is a soggy afternoon in late May. There are flowers just starting to show their faces, and John woke up that morning in a good mood. He'd only had one nightmare the night before and it had been early in the night. For the first time in a long time he felt rested. When he'd looked in the mirror that morning, he'd actually _looked_. There are permanent grey circles beneath his eyes, and the lines that had been manageable before now furrow into the space between his brows and the corners of his mouth. Any tan he'd retained from Afghanistan has fled, leaving his skin pale, wan. He has lost weight, and it showed in his face. Unlike Sherlock, with his perfect bone structure, underfed is not a good look on John. His body is fit, perhaps rivalling the physique he'd had in the army, but it doesn't make up for how bone-_tired _ he looks.

Nevertheless, John takes to the day with as much enthusiasm as he is able. He goes to the clinic in the morning, and when he finishes his shift mid-afternoon, his mobile buzzes.

"I wondered when you might call," he says by way of greeting. He is answered by a gusty sigh.

"You know, it's funny how you manage to sound exactly like him and still not get on my nerves anywhere near as much," Lestrade grumbles. "I assume that means you know I'm calling about the Adair murder?"

"It does. Where are you?"

"At a flat on Park Lane, I'll text you the address. When can you get here?"

John is approaching Lambeth North Tube station. He consults his watch as he crosses the road.

"Unless Transport for London decides to turn on me, I can be there in less than a half hour. That all right?"

"Yeah, perfect," Lestrade says. "See you soon."

John hangs up and makes his way through the station. The lifts down to the platform are jammed full, as are the trains, but a miraculous lack of delays means John gets to the block of flats on Park Lane in just as much time as he said.

The murder itself isn't complex, but the circumstances around it are. John's examination fails to elucidate the situation, and he leaves the flat a bit put out. It seems simple enough, but there aren't enough facts to explain the murder itself. The man had no enemies, supposedly, and the door was locked. Anyone to have shot him through the window would need to have been a crack shot, professional even. However, there wasn't any evidence that Ronald Adair interacted with such people. He'd had a decent windfall the night before, nothing major enough to murder over, and locked himself into his study to work the unexpected funds into his budget. He shared a flat with his sister, who hadn't heard a shot and had found him in the morning, having forced open the door only to find her brother in a pool of blood on the floor. The flat faces the back of the building, away from Hyde Park.

When John leaves the building around six o'clock, his good mood has evaporated. He's worn out, and feels rather deflated. It's days like this, most of all, that he misses Sherlock. Days when he wishes he could turn to his brilliant friend for an answer, days when he doesn't feel clever or special and he just feels _done_ with it all. Sherlock may have had some trouble in social situations, but sometimes he just knew what John needed, and would be happy to curl up and watch rubbish on telly. Sometimes he'd even let John pick a movie and endure indignation (but it's _Star Wars_, Sherlock! How have you never seen it?) if he was unfamiliar with it.

John missed the Sherlock he was in love with all the time, and the Sherlock who was his best friend, but sometimes he just missed having a flatmate.

On the corner of Oxford Street and Park Lane, a man waxes poetical about the end of the world. He has drawn a crowd, and as John passes the man's words catch his attention.

"…and the dead shall rise from where they have fallen, and with their own blood write the last words of the world…"

John scoffs as he gives the dishevelled man a glance. In his opinion, the end of the world would be much less dramatic. And besides, John might not mind the end of the world if the dead came back first.

So preoccupied is John with the man that he fails to see the person in his path. John knocks fully into an elderly man with arms full of books, and the tomes scatter across the damp pavement. John's attention immediately snaps to the stumbling old man, and guilt pours through him. The man falls heavily to the concrete. John apologizes profusely, and tries to help the man retrieve his books. John catches the title on the spine of one of the books: _The Hive and the Honeybee._

"Bugger off, ya clumsy idiot!" the man rasps at John, aiming violent shooing motions in his direction. Chastened, John apologizes again and heads meekly for the Tube station. He doesn't notice the man following him into the Tube station at Marble Arch, or indeed following him all the way to Baker Street.

When John gets home, all he wants to do is lie on the couch with a mug of tea and do nothing for an hour or so. He has plans to go to the pub with Stamford, and doesn't want to go. He knows that he needs to force himself to actually engage socially with people, or risk falling back into the hermitude he'd induced immediately after Sherlock's death.

So when Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs to tell him that a nice old man is here to see him, John isn't happy about it.

The sound of feet on the steps is somehow familiar. If John closes his eyes, the way his visitor's shoes impact the wooden stairs could almost remind him of…

Silly. It's been three years. _Get over it already, John._

A shadow appears in the doorway. It is stooped, and strangely malformed. John is surprised to recognize the man from Oxford Street, still toting his load of old books. They stand in silence for a moment.

The man starts to speak, apologizing for his brusque treatment of John earlier, and explaining that he'd followed him to make amends. His voice is scratchy, barely more than air, and when he explains that he called out to John but was not heard, John is not surprised.

There is something intensely familiar about the man, also. He wear a weathered fedora and a brown trenchcoat that is many sizes too big for him. It hangs down over his hands and obscures whatever his body shape is with thick folds of fabric. The man is hunched over, and supports himself on a cane, clutching his books in his other arm. As he talks, he sets the books down on the coffee table.

John still feels horrid about knocking the man down.

"Look, why don't I make you a cuppa," he offers. "It's the least I can do."

"That would be wonderful, John," croaks the man. It doesn't even occur to John as he goes into the kitchen to busy himself with tea that the man had used his name.


	11. Eleven

John can hear the man puttering around in the other room, hear his coat rustling as he moves. It doesn't really bother John. There _are_ a lot of interesting things in the living room. The skull, for example, which John could never quite bring himself to lock up with the rest of Sherlock's things, and the myriad collection of absurd memorabilia from cases. So John really doesn't fault the man for snooping a bit. He wonders, though, if the harpoon leaning in one corner will put him off at all.

The kettle rumbles through its boil and clicks off. Turning his back to the living room, John plunks two tea bags into mugs. He douses them with hot water.

"Do you take anything in your tea?" John calls over his shoulder. The "no" he receives in response sounds a bit choked up. John suspects the man may have a cold, or respiratory illness of some sort. Perhaps he could help the man out, recommend a medication to ease his obviously ragged throat. The tea will help, at least.

Lifting the mugs, John turns back towards the living room. He keeps his gaze fixed on the full mugs of hot tea. It would be embarrassing to stumble and drop them; after all, the man has plenty of evidence already that leads to the assumption that John is a clumsy clod.

A pair of shoes comes into the periphery of John's vision, just in front of him. He looks up, mouth opening to address the man. Perhaps he'd changed his mind about the tea?

His questing gaze meets a pair of keen silver-blue eyes, and he drops the tea.

There is nothing to describe the feeling that inundates John. He pays no attention to the scalding water soaking into his socks, he can't. Every scrap of his focus is on the face, the body, the _man_ in front of him. John can really do nothing but blink as his mind and emotions scrabble to catch up with the sight in front of him. When he finds his muscles unlocking, the gears in his brain start to turn again and a deluge of thoughts comes pouring out.

_Oh god oh god this isn't real I've finally lost my mind I thought it would have happened before this but god I wish it had because I could have had this had him in front of me even if it wasn't real oh Jesus Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock is this how I saw you you're so beautiful even if you're just a figment of my… god my mind is good at this all of a sudden it's like I can feel his breath why is he breathing so hard those couldn't be tears why would figment-Sherlock be crying I wonder if he'd evaporate if I touched him oh god I have to try…_

So, though he fears it is foolish, John extends a hand. His imaginary-Sherlock gasps faintly, but doesn't stop him. In fact, he closes his eyes, freeing a tiny clear droplet from his lower lid.

John's fingers meet Sherlock's cheek, feather-light and tentative as a first kiss. Sherlock doesn't evaporate. His cheek is warm and smooth, as John always suspected it might be. Sherlock's skin may have been the colour of alabaster but John never for one moment thought it would feel like stone. The hallucination leans into his touch, raising one trembling hand to interlace his fingers with John's where they rest on his face. He feels remarkably real, and John feels something acidic like despair in his chest. If only.

"John."

His voice is just as John remembers. So gorgeous, it cuts straight through him, punches into his soul and opens a gaping hole in the scar tissue he's built up there. It's all fresh again.

"_No, don't…" _

"_Goodbye, John." _

"_SHERLOCK!"_

"_I was so alone, and I owe you so much."_

"Sherlock," John says, finally, because what else can he say? How can he tell a hallucination the truth? _I've missed you every moment, with every fibre of myself; I have loved you my whole life, I think, without knowing it; to live without you for three years has been worse than all the torture the world could devise._ To admit it to a phantasm, a mirage of his tired mind, when he's not been able to say as much to the real people in his life, seems ludicrous.

"John," he hears, and it's broken, as though the illusion's throat has closed with emotion. "I'm real. You aren't seeing things."

The real Sherlock always could read his mind, or so it seemed. John almost smiles.

"Please. Believe me, I'm real, I'm here."

John's rational mind catches up.

"Sherlock?"

That familiar face splits into a luminous grin, and John watches as an unfamiliar scar along one graceful cheekbone stretches with the motion. That is what snaps John's mind out of his reverie. He wouldn't imagine a scar that doesn't exist.

"_Sherlock?"_

"Yes, John, it's me."

John isn't even aware of moving. He draws his hand back from where it rests on Sherlock's cheek and for a split second he absorbs Sherlock's expression of abject desolation. The next thing he knows, his fist is colliding with Sherlock's perfect, awful, _beautiful_ face, and Sherlock is whipping around with the force of the blow. He doesn't retaliate, just looks up at John with shock and hurt evident in his eyes and… is that resignation?

"You utter wanker!" John bellows. It's all just erupting out of him, straight from that black lump of rage in his chest into the air. "Do you have any idea, _any idea_? What possessed you to… No, you know what, I don't want to know, I can't even fathom what could have possibly made you think that it was okay to make me believe for three years, _three years_, Sherlock! Did it bother you at all? Or was it nice, not to have to deal with my asinine comments and pathetic _feelings_ all the time? Did you have a nice vacation from the boring human?"

"_John_…"

John already regrets his words, but he can't stop.

"What, you thought now that the world thought you a fraud, that it was a good time to _fake your bloody death_ and swan off to God-knows-where?" John takes a deep breath. "God, Sherlock. Why didn't you _tell_ me? No, don't answer that either, I know I won't like the answer. I can barely _look_ at you right now." John knows this is only half true. John may have trouble looking at Sherlock right now, in his anger, but he can't look away either. Sherlock might vanish.

"John, I…" Sherlock Holmes lost for words is truly a sight to behold, and John drinks it in eagerly, greedily. It is easy for John to remember why he fell in love with the man, now, seeing his handsome face open with actual, honest emotion, curls rioting, eyes wide open with what looks like fear.

As John watches, expectant, Sherlock deflates. His shoulders slump and his eyes cast downwards. He starts to turn away from John, and the spell holding John's eyes fixed on Sherlock's face is broken. John's gaze sweeps over him, for just a moment, and he takes in the shabby, badly mended clothes, the worn-out boots, the gauntness of his frame. Sherlock was always pale, but now his skin has taken on an unhealthy pallor.

"I suppose I'll just be going, then. I thought this would happen."

Everything grates to a halt in John's brain.

"_What?_"

"I… I suspected you might not want me back. It was the most… reasonable response that could come out of a situation such as this. I apologize for having alarmed you. I'll just go."

Slowly, as if every movement of every muscle group pains him, Sherlock starts for the door. John is frozen for a moment, again too overloaded to do a thing. Sherlock is halfway to the stairs before John acts. He lurches forward.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock slows, but doesn't turn.

"Stop! Please, I can't…" John strides after him, not knowing how he is going to finish that sentence. He reaches out for Sherlock and gets a handful of wiry shoulder. The look that Sherlock shoots him is full of a potent mixture of despair and longing.

"You don't get to just walk away, Sherlock, Jesus…" John is able to get out before his instincts take over. He spins Sherlock to face him, roughly, slides a hand into his curls, pulls Sherlock down and kisses him.

It isn't as rough as he'd intended. John had wanted to use his mouth against Sherlock's as punctuation for his tirade, but the moment his lips are on Sherlock's all intent disappears. Having those sumptuous, slightly chapped lips finally pressed to his is a balm on his temper, and the kiss is gentle. The press of Sherlock's mouth to his is all warmth and soft breath and the faintest remnant of smoke.

They stand there for a long moment, just breathing each others air. John clutches at Sherlock's curls. At the slight tug on his hair, Sherlock opens his mouth and emits a small, breathy "ah", and John is undone.

The kiss turns fevered, and John feels like his skin is too small. Everything is so surreal and the last five minutes have felt like they happened to someone else.

Though it kills him, goes against every impulse in his body, John pulls back.

"Sherlock, I…" John whispers.

"John, I'm so sorry, I can't tell you how much…" Sherlock breathes, frenetic, against John's lips. He's trembling, vibrating with energy or terror, John can't differentiate. "I did it for you, he was going to kill you, better me than you, but there were things I needed to… I couldn't tell you, they were watching, still are, but he's here now, I can get him, but I couldn't be back here and not…" Sherlock takes a deep, shuddery breath. "I just couldn't keep away any longer. It wasn't… prudent, for my work. You see, I've been rather… distracted and out of sorts, without your presence, and it only makes sense to be functioning at peak efficiency, if I'm to finally get Moran, and…" He trails off, staring into John's eyes. He has that look, the one John has frequently dubbed the "we both know what's going on here" face. But this time it's different, it's like he's pleading with the universe for John to understand, and for once, John does.

"God, I missed you too."


	12. Twelve

Tentatively, Sherlock slips his arms tighter around John. He leans down and tucks his face into John's neck. John takes a deep breath and holds him close, hardly daring to believe, even now, that this is real. He fears that he will be jostled into wakefulness any second. As subtly as he can, John brings his hands together behind Sherlock and gives the thin flesh on the inside of his right wrist a vicious pinch. It hurts, and the world doesn't dissolve. John breathes a hitching sigh of relief.

"You're not dreaming," Sherlock rumbles, and John feels the words against his chest as much as he hears them.

John wishes he could relax at those words, but there is just so _much_ to take in, not least being the fact that he'd kissed Sherlock. In John's trophy case of stupid decisions, that one probably sat between invading Afghanistan and not running the other way the first time he'd seen Sherlock. He cannot deny the fact that Sherlock hadn't seemed unwilling. Quite the opposite, rather, but John feared that it didn't mean the same to Sherlock as it did to him.

He wants to say something, anything, ask what it means, if Sherlock is here to stay, could he really not stay away, is it just manipulation to get John to come along on another of his mad dashes?

Also, John knows that once the shock and relief and everything else wears off, he will be livid with Sherlock. John knows the feeling intimately, being angry with Sherlock, but this goes deeper. This isn't something that will be swiped away by one of Sherlock's rare smiles and a promise to do the shopping. But, at the moment, John's emotional capacity is pretty well to the max.

And then something occurs that pushes John's capacity over the limit.

There is a subdued whizzing sound, then the snap of a bullet hitting wallpaper. On sheer instinct John drags Sherlock to the floor, throwing himself on top of his friend. It's probably unnecessary; if a sniper had wanted to hit them, they would be dead. No hail of gunfire follows, and John wishes he could concentrate on the warmth of Sherlock's body beneath his own, the jut of his hip into John's belly.

Footsteps on the stairs, heavy, big feet in thick boots.

Sherlock's eyes are huge and, if possible, more guilty than before.

"John, I'm so sorry, I brought them here," he whispers. "I knew this would happen, I could have stopped it…"

"Don't, don't apologize for that," John says in the last moments before the footsteps reach the top of the stairs. He skims perfectly steady fingers across Sherlock's cheek. "You have enough to be sorry for already."

John wants to take back the words as soon as he says them, but he only gets a glimpse of Sherlock's face, splayed open with hurt and something that looks like agreement, before he is hauled up by rough hands and has his hands wrenched behind his back. He struggles, ineffectually, and watches as another figure slowly ascends the stairs.

By this point, another two cronies (John cannot spare enough attention to take in much of their physical appearance: it is enough to know that they are stronger than him and he is outnumbered) have pinioned Sherlock and are holding him in place beside John.

The man on the stairs comes into view, and Sherlock snarls.

"It wouldn't have sat well, would it, _Sebby_, for Adair to have beaten you? You had to get that last word."

"He annoyed me," the man says. His voice is clipped, efficient, brutal, and John recognises the set of his features. He's seen it on men in the military before, that stone-set expression of sheer deadly intent. He can read the man's military history as clearly as Sherlock had read his on that first day at Bart's; his stance, haircut and the set of his shoulders all scream officer at John and a tiny part of his brain wants to make him stand at attention.

He resists. Sherlock is struggling like a mad, wild thing, flashing eyes fixed like daggers on the newcomer's face.

"I will bleed you dry if you harm one hair on his head," he growls, his face twisting with rage and determination.

"We've had this conversation before, Sherlock, remember? That phone call I tapped from Islamabad? Do you remember what I said to you?"

Sherlock blanches.

"That's what I thought," the man says. He strides over to John and looks down at him. The man is about the same height as Sherlock, but broader. He has thick blonde hair in a strict crew cut, and the skin of his face is weathered and littered with scars.

"So, John Watson. We finally meet. I'm Sebastian Moran."


	13. Thirteen

It's stupid, John knows it's stupid, but Sherlock's smarm had rubbed off on him long ago and three years hadn't been enough to get rid of it.

"Doesn't ring a bell, mate, sorry."

Moran's attention doesn't shift from John as he snaps at Sherlock.

"Tell him, Holmes."

The look on Sherlock's face is venomous. He doesn't speak.

John barely has time to breathe before Moran viciously backhands him across the face. His head snaps to the side so fast that his vision blurs.

"Tell. Him." Moran is snarling now, but his gaze is still fixed on John.

"Sebastian Moran, born in 1976 in London. Educated Eton, then Oxford, accepted into the British infantry immediately out of college and trained as a sniper. Saw conflict in Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan, Made it to the rank of Colonel before receiving a dishonourable discharge upon being found guilty of assault, both of fellow officers and civilians, and the suspected murder of three civilians. Recruited by one James Moriarty two months after discharge, and he's been a massive pain in my arse for the better part of three years." Sherlock's tone changes, and his expression fills with hatred. "You see, he is the last significant member of Moriarty's web, and was the last thing impeding my return home." _To you_ is unspoken, but John fancies he sees it in the glance Sherlock throws in his direction.

Sherlock's gaze turns to a glare when he returns it to Moran.

"Anything you want to add?"

"No, you covered it." Moran is smiling now, and it makes John's spine crawl. He hasn't seen a smile that insincere and full of rancid malice since Moriarty. John wants to be as far away from that smile as his legs will carry him.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" John is just carrying out a death wish now, surely.

"I should hope so, Mr. Watson."

"That's Doctor Watson, actually. And you may have outranked me once, _Colonel_, but at least I was discharged honourably. Forgive me if I don't show the proper respect for your rank."

"John…" Sherlock breathes warningly.

Moran snorts and looks down at John, pointedly craning his neck down.

"Are you for real?" he sneers.

John just smiles. The fierce punch laid just below his ribs is not a surprise, but it hurts like hell and John is winded again.

"We'll drum that attitude out of you yet, _Captain_," says Moran and John is forcibly reminded of his drill sergeant from Basic Training. He'd said much the same thing on a regular basis, but this isn't the army, and John is not inclined to follow orders anymore. So John lets his smile fade and just stares.

It doesn't matter that he has to look up to do it, John _will_ hold this man's gaze.

"Enough," Moran says, curling his lip. "We have somewhere to be." He nods at one of the men pinioning John. A solid weight cracks down on the back of John's skull and Sherlock's roar of outrage (or maybe it's John's name, it's all rather hazy) is the last thing he hears before blackness shuts out the world.


	14. Fourteen

Sherlock struggles and strains at his bonds, watching as John regains consciousness. It is a painful process, clearly: John is obviously concussed, and his ankles are bound to the legs of his chair with taut zip ties. Sherlock can't see how his hands are tied, but he suspects that they are similarly restrained. Moran had tossed a canvas sack over Sherlock's head as they left the flat, and by the time they deigned to remove it, John was already slumped and bound in a solid metal chair. Being chained to the floor in front of John with stubborn chain and a pair of rather resilient handcuffs, Sherlock can't get close enough to see. He tried to slip the cuffs a while ago, but wrenched behind his back as they are he can't get the leverage to break the necessary bones.

While waiting for John to stir, Sherlock had examined the space. They are in a bare concrete room with a shining, white tile floor. Sherlock's chain is soldered to a heavy ring set in the middle of the floor, next to an ominous drain. One entire wall is made up of flawless plate glass windows.

The view treats Sherlock to a panorama of London. From what he can see, he deduces that they are on the South Bank, near London Bridge, high up…

The Shard, he'd realized. Fascinating.

Now that Sherlock knows where he is, and John is waking up, a plan forms. As long as Mycroft holds up his end, Sherlock and John can be done with all these delays and back to the flat (_home_) within an hour or so.

As John opens his eyes, it hits Sherlock squarely between the lungs how fiercely he _missed_ John. He knew, of course he knew that the fog of depression that had lain over him for the past three years was a result of him pining over John's absence, but now, back in John's presence, he wonders how he lived without John for so long.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John grates out, squinting forward. It sends something slow and warm spreading through Sherlock's chest, hearing John speaking his name. He'd hated his own name for many years, but hearing it on John's lips, in any context, makes him think that there is some potential beauty in the word "Sherlock".

"John, I'm here," Sherlock says in a low voice.

"What happened?"

"A man named Sebastian Moran paid an expected but unwelcome visit to the flat just as we were getting reacquainted. His employee hit you in the back of the head with the butt of his gun." Sherlock's gut writhes with rage at the memory of watching John's eyes roll back in his head and seeing his body crumple to the carpet as Sherlock bellowed his name. "What do you remember?"

"I remember punching you, and yelling at you a bit, but the rest is pretty much gone," John says, scrunching up his face in an effort to remember. Sherlock's heart sinks. John doesn't remember the kiss. It was probably only a spur of the moment, instinctual act anyhow, an attempt at close human contact after so long apart. The kiss may have crumbled Sherlock's defences and left him a flayed open mess of raw nerve endings and enough sheer _wanting_ to split a lesser man asunder, but he doubts that it was the same for John.

"Yes, well." Sherlock breaks John's gaze and peers intently at the grouting between the tiles. "Moran came in quite quickly after that, you aren't missing very much. Nothing of particular importance." _Lie_. _That's a dirty great lie, Sherlock_.

He starts to take it back, damn the consequences. "John, actually, I…"

The door bangs open. Sherlock looks up and meets Sebastian Moran's lightning-blue eyes. A measured, malicious smile oozes across his face.

"Hello gentlemen, I hope I'm not interrupting," he drawls. "I just wanted to see if Johnny here was awake, and lucky me…" Moran strides forward, fists a hand in John's short hair and wrenches his head back. John chokes out a pained sound, a grinding of breath in the back of his throat. Seb flicks a knife out of a sheath at his hip and before Sherlock can even inhale to cry out, he's got it poised across John's jugular.

Sherlock can just see the tension in John's muscles ratchet up. He renews his struggles against the unforgiving cuffs, surely tearing livid red rings into the pale, thin skin of his wrists and not caring a whit. He heaves forward on the floor, putting so much tension on his arms that he fears his shoulder may dislocate. It's all transport, after all, and everything is secondary to John. Sherlock murmurs his name as he tries in vain to reach his friend.

"Don't like that, Sherlock? I always wondered if John Watson would bleed pretty…" At that, Seb lets the honed edge of the blade bite into John's skin, just enough to nick, draw a blossom of crimson. The sight of John's blood, however small the amount, puts Sherlock into a strangely calm place in his rage.

"Get your hands off him, now," Sherlock intones in a heavy, deep voice, "and I may let you die quickly."

To Sherlock's surprise, Seb does. He raises his hands in mock surrender, one still holding the knife ruddied by John's blood, and smirks.

"Whatever you like, Holmes. This knife is meant for you, anyway."

John starts to struggle and protest.

"Stop it, John," Sherlock interrupts, gentler than he intends to. "It will be fine."

Moran, meanwhile, has moved to crouch beside Sherlock.

"You really thought we wouldn't find it, Sherlock? We passed you though an x-ray on the way in."

Sherlock freezes. They'd found the GPS chip he'd had implanted into the flesh of his upper left arm a few months prior. _Fuck_.

"Did you think you could get away with that?" Moran sneers, cutting the buttons from Sherlock's shirt one by one until it falls open. "Stupid." He peels the fabric down, over Sherlock's shoulders to bunch at his elbows. Moran then runs the flat of the knife against the thumbnail-sized scar that denotes the chip's location.

With a wicked, poisonous smile, Moran carves the point of the blade into Sherlock's flesh, and Sherlock screams.


End file.
